by David Storey
He sat in the living-room for several seconds – broad window to the front, narrower to the back – then went into the kitchen and looked in the fridge: yesterday’s lunch was still intact, as was yesterday’s supper and the afternoon’s tea.
‘Are you ready, Elly?’
‘I shall be in a minute.’
‘Are you catching the twenty-one?’
The answer was lost amidst the whine of electronic music.
In a pan, on the electric stove, stood the remains of that day’s lunch.
Having turned the electricity on, Attercliffe turned it off and gazed at his reflection in the yet uncurtained kitchen window.
Not only grey, his hair was white, in two broad swathes, one above each ear: dark eyes, black-lashed, gazed out from beneath brows thickened by scarring over the years; the cheeks looked beaten-in, the outward-glancing cheekbones sharp, the jaw pronounced, the mouth full-lipped, the teeth irregular (the lower set his, the upper not) – the whole overhanging a square-shaped chest, broad, thick-shouldered, sturdy.
‘Ready!’
‘Right!’
Feet pounded on the stairs.
The house shook; the kitchen trembled.
A white Negro came in the kitchen door and looked at Attercliffe with coal-black eyes; white paint had been applied about the face within which a purple orifice glistened: cannibal or aboriginal relic, it gazed at him for several seconds.
‘We’re off.’
‘Got your key?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Who’s seeing you home?’
‘No one.’
Elise appeared in the hall behind: hair plastered down, nostrils distended.
‘Are you walking back from town by yourself?’
‘I have done before.’
‘What about Benjie?’
‘I can’t expect him to walk out and walk all the way back again.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’d be unfair.’
‘I’d have thought, if he cares about you as much as you say he does,’ Attercliffe said, ‘it would be his prime concern. Doesn’t he care if you get attacked?’
She turned to the door.
‘Can’t he steal a taxi?’ he asked.
‘He hasn’t learned to drive.’
‘Can’t he mug someone to pay for the cab?’
Attercliffe felt in his pocket.
‘We’ll manage.’
‘What if someone attacks you?’
‘They have.’
‘When?’
‘The other night.’
He stepped out to the hall. ‘What did you do?’
‘I screamed.’
‘Jesus.’
‘It’s quite nice walking back on your own at night.’
‘Yeah,’ Elise said behind his back.
‘Good night, Dad.’
‘Good night,’ Attercliffe said, and called, ‘See you in the morning,’ as she opened the door.
‘Will you be all right on your own?’ Elise paused on the step.
‘I’ve been on my own before,’ he said.
‘See you in the morning, Dad.’
‘See you.’
He closed the door after her and her sister’s forms had disappeared between the gateless gateposts. A whiff of perfume lingered in the hall: he went back to the bedroom and sat at the desk.
Holder – try, 18th min. Bennett converted. Watkinson try, 57th min. Bennett failed. Audsley free kick, 83rd min.
He had to ring up to get the full results in one or two minutes (three other matches today, the rest tomorrow), only, he gazed at the notes and the cover of the programme and tapped his fingers on the typewriter keys and, finally, got out the scrap of paper and looked at the address, ‘36 Queensgate, Flat 7’, and noticed for the first time she’d added her name, ‘Phyllis Gardner’, in brackets.
The doorbell rang.
He got up, thought, ‘Forgotten their keys,’ and went downstairs.
He could see through the frosted panels of the door that the figure standing there was of neither of his daughters, and speculated that it might even be that of Dougie Walters interpreting intention for accomplished fact.
Turning the latch and lifting the sneck he found, however, with some alarm, that he was gazing at his wife.
3
Her hair was concealed beneath a headscarf and the collar of a fur-lined coat was raised around her neck.
Her face had the slenderness of his daughters’, but the eyes were grey, not brown, and the nose, if anything, was slimmer, the mouth more broadly formed: she looked considerably younger than forty; it was only when she came into the hall that the lines were apparent around her mouth, and the thin traceries evident at the corners of her eyes. She wore no make-up and looked as if, moments before, she might have been crying.
‘You’ve just missed Elise and Catherine.’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘Up the road?’
‘On the way to the bus-stop.’ She glanced past him. ‘I’m not disturbing you?’
‘Come in,’ he said, and closed the door.
‘I thought they looked attractive.’
‘Could you see them in the dark?’
‘They were passing under a lamp.’
He showed her into the living-room – their living-room: they had lived here sixteen years as man and wife – and though he had redecorated it once since her departure, it looked very much as it had done when they’d first arrived, with its ‘executive’ stone fireplace, its beige walls, its ‘executive’-framed windows, its three-piece suite, and its ‘executive’ bookcase crowded with the children’s magazines, records, bags of make-up and unironed clothes.
‘How’s Bryan and Keith?’ (Their sons.)
‘All right.’
‘And Lorna?’ (Their one remaining daughter.)
‘She’s well.’
‘I was hoping to pick them up tomorrow. I’ve just got in. I haven’t had time to ring.’
‘That’s all right.’
She sat by the fire.
The prospect of seeing his wife in her fur-lined coat sitting in front of their domestic fire as she might have sat in a doctor’s waiting-room was not Attercliffe’s vision of an inspiring evening and, after regarding her for several seconds, he asked, ‘Shall I take your coat?’
‘It’s all right.’
They gazed at the fire together.
‘Want a drink?’
She glanced up. ‘You go ahead.’
‘I’ve had one.’
‘Are the girls all right?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
She glanced across.
‘Girls, these days.’ He passed his hand above his head. ‘You never mentioned Catherine was taking a contraceptive.’
‘If she’d have wanted you to know she’d have told you herself.’
‘She consulted you instead.’
She shook her head. ‘You’ve never understood the great strides liberation has taken for women. It affects,’ she continued, ‘their daughters as well.’
‘So I’ve noticed.’
‘How was the match?’
‘All right.’
Attercliffe shifted himself to a more formal position.
‘Has Maurice sent you?’
In addition to being the man she had ‘gone to’, two and a half years before, Maurice was the proprietor of a motor-car showroom – of several car showrooms, come to that – a racing and rally driver in his youth, he was now a thin-haired, harsh-featured roadhog of gargantuan proportions who had, by all accounts, in a long and successful career, killed three people in road accidents. Presently the owner of a Rolls-Royce, a Bentley and a Jaguar, he was also the owner of a house which, by comparison, relegated 24 Walton Lane, Walton, Near Morristown – a four-bedroomed, one bathroomed, one living-roomed (dining-annexed), one-kitchened ‘executive’ dwelling – to the status of a garden shed.
‘How about Gavin?’
‘Who?’
> ‘I wasn’t told his second name.’
‘He has two children, as a matter of fact.’
‘Has he got room for you in his house, or is he moving in with Maurice?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Elise and Catherine said you weren’t feeling well.’
Having glanced in his direction, she looked back to the fire: she was sitting on the edge of the settee, her knees together, her hands in her lap; a handbag and a pair of gloves were trapped beneath her fingers.
‘I’m not.’
‘Anything to complain about?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
‘Did you happen to be passing?’
‘I came on the bus.’
‘I thought you had a car.’
‘I left it at home.’ (A Rover: one bracket up from Attercliffe’s Cortina.) She paused. ‘I went for a walk, then caught a bus. I wasn’t expecting to come this far.’
‘Who’s looking after the children?’
‘Hazel.’
‘Who’s Hazel?’
‘The au pair.’
‘Could do with her here, if she’s not too busy.’
‘She has her hands full at present, thank you.’
Her flat-heeled shoes were positioned side by side.
‘Unpleasant night.’
‘It is.’
‘Have you come to check the Pools?’
The fingers were raised above the handbag and the pair of gloves – all in matching leather.
‘I’ve been thinking of coming back.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘To this house?’
‘I don’t know where else I can mean.’
‘How about Maurice?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Or Gavin?’
She didn’t answer again.
‘I’m not free to take you back.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m getting married.’
‘Who to?’
‘A friend.’
She snorted, got out a handkerchief from her handbag and blew her nose, delicately, for several seconds.
‘I don’t think anyone’s heard of her,’ she said.
‘I don’t broadcast it around at the paper. Nor,’ Attercliffe said, ‘do I have it pinned up in the Buckingham Brasserie Bar.’
‘Have you told the children?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s a time and place for everything.’
‘If marriage were on the cards, Frank,’ she said, ‘you’d have mentioned it already.’
‘We lead independent lives,’ Attercliffe said. ‘Cathy didn’t tell me she was on the pill, I don’t tell her I’m getting married. We don’t sit here,’ he added, ‘each evening, discussing your extramarital affairs.’
‘It sounds as if you do. At length.’ The handkerchief was clasped more tightly.
‘It was reported on the phone. We don’t even think of you,’ he added, ‘from one day to the next.’
‘It’s not what Freddie tells me. I met him in the street.’
‘He never mentioned it.’
‘Too drunk, I suppose, to remember.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘He was never very fond of me.’
‘Why did you speak to him?’
‘He stopped me.’
‘What did he say?’
‘You were under the weather.’
Her eyes glanced up, then away, and he bowed his head and said, ‘I’ll get a drink. Do you fancy one?’
‘No thanks.’
He went through to the kitchen, delved amongst the tins in the fridge, and poured himself a beer.
When he went back to the living-room she’d taken off her coat.
‘I’m finding it hot.’
‘It is hot.’ He sat down. She was wearing a skirt, a blouse and a jacket. He indicated the fire. ‘The girls have lit it. They often do at the weekend. A fire and the central heating together.’
‘Cosy.’ She had resumed her position, her hands in her lap: the gloves and the handbag were with the coat over the arm of the settee.
‘Did you tell the girls you were calling at the house?’
‘They seemed to feel I’d planned it.’
‘They must have been surprised.’
‘Not much.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I was coming to see you.’
‘Did you tell them what about?’
She shook her head.
‘Does Maurice know you’re here?’
She didn’t reply.
‘What about Gavin?’
‘Gavin I haven’t seen,’ she said, ‘for several days.’
‘Who is he?’ Attercliffe asked.
‘Someone I talk to.’
‘I thought you talked a lot to Maurice. All those parties. And the way, you said, he mixed with the world.’
‘I still like parties.’ She gazed at the fire. ‘And the world as well, as a matter of fact.’
‘Gavin’s a better conversationalist,’ Attercliffe suggested.
‘He’s an extremely articulate and thoughtful man, sensitive, kind and forward-looking.’
‘Jesus.’
‘He doesn’t want to injure his wife. That’s why he doesn’t see me.’
‘You do, on the other hand?’ he inquired.
‘I don’t want to injure her either.’ She looked at him directly – the grey eyes – and he saw – though it had no effect upon him whatsoever – that she had begun to cry.
‘There is so much suffering in the world that I don’t see the point of creating more. Even if it means,’ she went on, ‘depriving yourself of what you want.’
‘You like Gavin,’ Attercliffe suggested.
‘If you think it’s promiscuity, Frank, we’ve been through that before. I’ve always believed in freedom. It was on that basis that I broke up this.’ She gestured round.
‘Why come back?’ he asked.
‘You thought that because I’d had five children my commitment to you was unalterable. It isn’t. I feel as free to come back as I was to leave.’
‘I too feel free,’ Attercliffe said. ‘I feel free to have you back or not to have you back, as the case may be.’
‘We’re still married, Frank,’ she said.
‘That’s an imposition we can soon get rid of.’
‘I don’t see it as an imposition.’
Attercliffe was conscious of a cold sensation at the back of his neck: she was wanting to come back whether he agreed to it or not.
‘You’d like to live here on your own?’ he asked.
‘You do.’
‘Because you left.’
She glanced from him to the fire. ‘Why should I be the one to suffer merely because I wish my life to expand, while you retain all the benefits of our life together, merely by standing still?’
Determination was, in fact, the one quality which, from the beginning, had drawn Attercliffe to her; she had been, for instance, as determined on having five children as she had been on not going out to work while she had them – and, having had them, on deciding that she had had not only enough of her married life but of marriage altogether.
‘We can sell the house,’ he said.
‘I don’t wish to sell the house.’ She paused. ‘With only half I couldn’t buy anywhere as convenient as this.’
‘Where do I live?’
‘You only need a room and a kitchen. You can visit the children here.’ She examined his look. ‘It’s only fair.’
‘You chose to leave. I didn’t.’
‘I choose to come back.’
‘You’re living with Maurice.’
‘I don’t wish to any longer.’
‘Why not?’
‘That’s my problem.’
‘Mine, too, if it involves me moving out. Assuming that I do move out. I don’t see why I should accommodate another whim.’
‘Re
markable how you see everyone’s aspirations, but your own, as whims. We’re not all stuck in a rut like you.’
‘Seems you are,’ Attercliffe said. ‘One that runs from here to Maurice.’
‘Maurice,’ she paused, ‘has other friends.’
‘What friends?’
‘His secretary. But Veronica,’ she added, ‘is of no greater consequence to Maurice than Gavin is to me.’
‘Gavin doesn’t see you.’
‘He doesn’t wish to hurt his wife.’ She added, ‘I never anticipated Gavin’s and mine being a prolonged relationship. I don’t anticipate Maurice and Veronica’s friendship to be one either.’
‘Possession,’ Attercliffe announced, ‘is nine points of the law. Having left of your own free will there can’t be many grounds for insisting that I have to take you back. I don’t want you back.’ He waved his hand. ‘You can insist,’ he added, ‘but I’m buggered if I’ll have you.’
‘You’d resort to the bigotry of a male-dominated legal system in order to protect yourself?’ she asked.
‘Just as I would if a lunatic got inside the house and tried to burn it down. Or as you would, no doubt, if I’d wandered off with a Rolls-Royce-driven scrubber and came back two and a half years later and insisted that you let me in.’
‘You’re old. You’re older than Maurice. Even he doesn’t talk about security and pride.’
‘I’m talking about common sense.’ He got up, beer swilling from his glass. ‘Try the same line with Maurice and see how far it gets you.’
‘I’m not married to Maurice.’
‘He’s seen to that.’
‘You’re behind the times. You don’t understand the first thing about freedom.’
She, too, stood up, though it wasn’t to leave, for she moved to the door and out to the hall.
She went to the bathroom.
When she came down she said, ‘Maurice bought his wife a house when they divorced.’
‘We’ll do the same for you,’ he said.
‘Half of this would buy a terraced house, which is where I started, Frank, but not where I mean to end, in the back streets of this town.’ After a while, she added, ‘Like you.’
‘I have to go out,’ Attercliffe said.
‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘I’d like to lock up before I leave.’
‘It’s amazing how trivial your interests have become.’
‘Basic, I’d describe them.’
‘A column in a local rag.’
‘I started off with less.’